Letters and Sodas
by Klee Wyck
Summary: She knew she was in trouble when she started thinking of him as her boyfriend. GSR. Season 6.


**Title: **Letters and Sodas  
**Author: **Klee Wyck  
**Pairing: **GSR  
**Rating: **M  
**Spoilers:** Seasons 6 & 7  
**Disclaimer:** Still not mine.  
**Summary: **She knew she was in trouble when she started thinking of him as her boyfriend.

A/N: Up here in Canadaland _no one_ refers to carbonated beverages as _sodas_. But Letters and Pops just doesn't have that same _je ne c'est, quoi_, you know? Yeah.

* * *

_And I want a boyfriend  
I want a boyfriend  
I want all that stupid old shit like letters and sodas  
Letters and soda  
Liz Phair, Fuck and Run_

* * *

It was all very weird in the beginning.

Weird, but good. Really, really _good_.

In a really weird way.

They got sex out of the way on that first night — well, the third night he followed her home — and that was fine, but it was only the beginning. They'd both known that sex between them would be nothing short of explosive, and it was.

There had been no fumbling, no questions, no hesitation.

A powder keg, ignited, finally.

Shooting stars.

The missing piece.

It was just all that other messy stuff that screwed everything up.

* * *

The morning after, he dared to kiss her bare shoulder before he slid from between the sheets, feeling like a different person living a different life.

He didn't want to leave.

He didn't want to stay, either.

He wanted…breakfast.

He wanted to think.

He wanted, more than anything, to not completely fuck this up.

So, he leaned down and kissed her shoulder again (_Did my heart love till now?_) and then he left.

He was going to leave a note but then thought he'd probably fuck that all up, too.

* * *

The morning after, she lay awake, listening to him stir, painfully aware of her heart pounding and fluttering and her mind racing a million miles a minute.

She hadn't slept at all.

Grissom. In her bed. Naked. As was she. She closed her eyes and bit down on the sheets balled in her hands.

What did it all mean?

She wasn't going to ask.

She felt him lean down and press his lips to her shoulder and she almost lost it then, almost rolled over and grabbed him and, well.

But, she didn't.

Then he kissed her shoulder _again_.

Shit.

_I love you,_ she wanted to yell. _I've always loved you._

But, she didn't.

So she lay there and pretended to sleep and let him make his getaway uninterrupted because she also didn't want to completely fuck this up.

* * *

They barely looked at each other that day because if they happened to make eye contact, they both smiled, at the exact same time.

And that just wouldn't do at all.

So, he paired her with Nick and sent them to process the Keeler murder scene, three hours away, deciding that if he didn't see her he wouldn't think about her.

Fat chance.

All he did was think about her, to the point that Catherine was getting irritated with having to repeat every single comment she made.

"Are you all right?" she finally asked. "You're completely out of it."

He was thinking about Sara and how her body had moved under his and over his and how she looked when she slept – at least he'd thought she was sleeping – and how her hair splayed across the pillow and how she'd curled up into him so easily, her arm draped across his chest, like it was something they did every night.

He wanted more.

He looked at Catherine. "You say something?"

* * *

He heard her footsteps before he saw her and he looked up, excited.

What the hell did _that_ mean?

"Well," she said, hoisting her bag up on her shoulder. "I'm heading home."

He watched her, hovering in his doorway, ready to take flight, as she had so many times before but this time, this time, he felt different. He felt privileged.

"All right," he said and even let himself smile a little. She smiled back.

"All right," she said. "Okay, then."

She turned to leave.

"Sara?" he said, tentative, but still hopeful, still privileged.

Still a question.

She turned back, eyes dark and full of promise.

"I'll see you later?"

She nodded. She smiled, and nodded again.

"Yes?" Also a question, but a hopeful one. She left him an opening, one that she desperately wanted him to fill.

_"Yes."_

* * *

She paced her apartment for half an hour, wondering if he would actually show up.

He'd asked to come.

Right?

Yes, he had. She hadn't misinterpreted that.

She didn't think.

What did it all mean?

After years of thinking about and wondering about and analyzing their weird and wonderful relationship she just she didn't want to know. She didn't want to know if this was _It_, if this was the _Real Thing_, or if he was just going to fuck her a few times and then beat a hasty retreat back into his Grissom shell.

She just didn't care anymore.

As she pondered whether or not to change her clothes or have a beer or do both, she heard the soft knocking at her door. So soft, in fact, that she probably wouldn't have heard it if she hadn't been waiting for it.

What did _that_ mean?

Nothing. It meant nothing.

Or, it meant something.

She flung the door open more violently than she'd meant to and he stood there, looking exactly as he had in his office, but now he was looking at _her_ and his eyes were very dark and he didn't appear to want to say anything, so she kissed him. She put her hands on either side of his face and kissed him.

Then she pulled him into the apartment, shut the door and kissed him some more.

And he kissed her back, hard enough to knock her off balance, his hands at her waist, then on her back, then tangled in her hair.

They broke apart only when she was pressed up painfully against the corner of the bookshelf, each gasping for breath, each thinking the same unspoken question:

What did _this_ mean?

* * *

He showed up again the next night.

And the next.

And the next.

He no longer asked if he was invited, and she just assumed he was.

She bought him a toothbrush and he started using it.

Which meant _something_.

* * *

She was giddy in those first few weeks. Positively _giddy_.

She had a secret, the best one ever, and no one to share it with.

"Ugh. What's the matter with you?" Catherine demanded one Monday morning as they stood near each other in the locker room.

Sara looked in her magnetic mirror quickly. She looked all right, she supposed. A bit tired, maybe, but that was understandable, considering.

"What do you mean?"

"You're _smiling_," Catherine said, pausing to push on her eyelids, as if holding a hangover headache at bay.

Sara bit her lower lip but it didn't help. The smile still worked its way up, up.

Now she was grinning.

And blushing.

"Am I?" she said, turning away to fasten her ID badge.

"You get laid last night or something?" Catherine went on, running fingers through her hair and scowling at her own reflection.

_Yes_, Sara thought, then bit her lip harder.

"No," she said.

Catherine slammed her locker door shut.

"God, me neither," she said.

* * *

"What are you doing?" he said. He'd been sleeping. She'd been wandering around the apartment, looking for something to do, a magazine to read, cereal to eat, and she'd stubbed her toe on the corner of the bed. Not used to having to be quiet, she'd yelped and swore and hopped and she woke him up.

Again.

"Sorry, sorry," she muttered, dropping down onto the bed and rubbing her foot.

He sighed, rolled onto his back and threw his arm over his eyes. "Are you okay?"

"No," she said through gritted teeth. "Shit, that hurts."

"Here," he said, leaning over and pulling her to him. He reached down, down, grabbed her foot and gently, gently kissed her toe. "Better?"

"Yeah," she said, grinning. "Yeah. Thanks."

"Go to sleep," he said, turning over and already drowsing off.

"Okay," she said, reaching over for her glass of water and knocking a pile of books on the floor.

* * *

"Well," he said, examining the vegetation arranged on his plate. "This looks…colourful." He thought he could see eggplant. Zucchini. Red peppers. Mushrooms, maybe.

She sat across from him, fiddling with her fork, fiddling with her napkin. "Yeah. It's…uh…meatless stir fry."

_But I like meat,_ he thought.

He took a tentative bite. He smiled at her.

She fiddled with her napkin and smiled back.

* * *

"Hey," he said on the phone.

"Hi," she said. "Where are you?"

"On my way home," he said.

"Okay," she said. "Well, I have dinner, you know, waiting."

There was a pause and she immediately knew what it meant.

"Oh," she said. She could almost _hear_ him close his eyes and gather his strength.

"Yeah. I'm on my way to, uh, my home." He cleared his throat and she almost felt sorry for him. She hoped he wouldn't crash his car as he attempted to fumble his explanation to her. She hoped he at least opened his eyes.

"Oh," she said again, because she didn't know what else to say.

"Sara, I'm just…really tired. And I need to sleep. And…uh…you…."

"Don't. Sleep," she said quietly.

"Sara—"

"Hey, it's okay. Really. Don't worry about it."

"I just…"

"Grissom. Really. No one said you had to come over here every night." She tried to say it with a smile but she realized suddenly she was dangerously close to tears. She smiled wider.

"I'll…I'll talk to you tomorrow, all right?" he said quietly.

"Yeah. Yeah. Drive safely."

She briefly considered saving his plate of food as she scraped it into the garbage. But she didn't know how long she'd be saving it _for_.

* * *

And then he missed her.

He was dead tired but as soon as he climbed into bed and closed his eyes he missed her. He was already used to her, her body, her scent, her long limbs curling and twining around his.

He didn't think he'd become addicted to her so quickly.

And it's exactly what scared the living shit out of him.

He rolled on his side and closed his eyes tight, tighter, imagining her behind him, breathing on his back, pretending to sleep.

He thought about calling her, just to say good night.

He thought about writing a letter, just to get his feelings about her down on paper.

He thought he'd completely fuck up both options and realized he'd made a horrible mistake by choosing to come home tonight.

Whatever _that_ meant.

* * *

He cornered her in the locker room the next morning and his heart broke a little when he saw she looked as exhausted as he felt.

"Hey," he said quietly.

"Hi," she said, smiling. Her hands fiddled with her belt as she waited for him to speak. He looked around, took a deep breath.

"About tonight," he said and she smiled wider and dropped her head, knowing what was coming, knowing what had always been coming.

_It was fun while it lasted_, she thought. _Fuck and run_.

"I thought…maybe." He stopped when she looked at him, her eyes piercing his soul.

"It's all right," she said brightly. "Really."

He frowned. "Uh…I thought you could come to…uh…my place tonight."

She stared at him.

He stared at her. He wanted her in his bed for once. Was that so hard for her to understand? Perhaps, since he hadn't actually said it.

He took another breath. "I want…I'd like for you to come over."

She stared at him. Now he was starting to sweat.

"If that's…all right with you."

"It's all right," she said, smiling. "Really."

* * *

Hands, lips, tongues, thighs, the sweet spot under the chin.

He held her hips as they moved, tangled in sheets and each other.

She pressed her lips to his temple, his mouth, and she whispered his name, over and over.

"Sara," he murmured as she arched and trembled.

"Sara," he bit out as he trembled and plunged and fell, further and further.

"Sara," he sighed into the saltiness of her neck.

_I love her_, he thought. _I've always loved her_.

It was so much better than all right.

* * *

On the third night she brought her own toothbrush, along with moisturizer, deodorant, chap stick and a hairbrush.

When she opened the cupboard she saw he'd made a space for her on the second shelf, between the toothpaste and the band aids.

She thought _that_ meant something.

* * *

"So, what do we call this?" she asked one night. She was sitting close to him on the couch and they were holding hands.

He looked at her.

_Love_, he thought.

"I mean, is this, a, uh…relationship?" As soon as the word left her mouth she cringed. He did, too. She shook her head. "Forget it. Forget I even said it."

He squeezed her hand, tight.

"Does it matter what it's called?" he asked.

_Yes_, she thought.

"No," she said.

He squeezed her hand tighter.

* * *

Now when he watched her at work he thought about different things, like how her hair smelled after a shower, how only he knew how she tasted, how she stretched in the mornings, how she jumped up and brushed her teeth before she'd let him kiss her. He'd watch her take notes during meetings and think, _Those fingers touched me last night, everywhere_, and he'd have to look away, quickly.

* * *

When she watched him at work she was sure she blushed but so far no one had mentioned it out loud to her, so maybe she was a better actor than she realized. Because the thoughts she had were thoroughly impure, improper, unprofessional. She thought about the sounds he made when she touched him, how warm he was at night, almost too warm to curl up with but she did anyway because she could and she still didn't know how long it would last. She looked at his hands as he shuffled through files and she thought about how they looked when they held her breasts, how they trembled when he clutched at her and she'd swallow loudly and then have to leave the room quickly.

* * *

The day he found one of her hairs in his bathroom sink he almost started crying.

He pulled it, long and dark, from where it lay coiled, snakelike, on the smooth curve of the cool, white basin.

Sara's hair, in his sink. His bathroom sink.

At that moment he couldn't think of anything more intimate in the world.

He held the single hair up to the light, watched as it curled up slightly. She'd been brushing her hair here, or maybe just looking in the mirror, studying her face as she got ready for bed. He closed his eyes and smiled.

He tucked the hair into his pants' pocket.

He fell a little more in love.

* * *

She knew she was in trouble when she started thinking of him as her boyfriend.

It was a stupid, juvenile term, best left to giggly, midriff-baring, boy-crazy teenagers, but what other choice did she have? Lover? Well yes, but _no_. No. She couldn't use that. Partner? Too clinical. What was he to her? Her best friend? Yes. The one? The special one? God. Yes. But _no_. So, what?

What?

And she loved him. God, she loved him. And she was in love with him, which didn't scare her, but made her wonder, from time to time, how he felt about her.

She never asked. Ever. And he never told her. Not in words, anyway.

But the way he looked at her, the way he touched her, God, it set her skin on fire, made her hot and cold and turned her inside out. He clutched at her like a drowning man, like someone who had never, maybe, ever touched a woman before.

It made her yearn for something she hadn't even known she was missing.

A boyfriend.

Whatever _that_ meant.

* * *

_Or maybe they were suffocating each other and he couldn't breathe._

As soon as he said it he realized how awful it sounded. How horribly, terribly awful. But it was said and she looked at him like she couldn't believe he'd just said it, and he wanted to tell her he hadn't meant it like that at all. Sometimes he said things. Sometimes he didn't say things. This was one of those times he wished he'd said nothing at all.

But it was too late and the look on her face told him that.

He would have kissed her if they hadn't been, well, at work.

And if she hadn't been looking at him like that.

* * *

"Where are you?" he said, sounding slightly irritated and more than slightly panicked.

"Home," she said.

Pause.

_"My_ home," she added. She was lying on her couch, exactly where she'd been for the past hour. If she'd had beer in her fridge she would have consumed it, but now she was glad she hadn't.

She really hadn't expected him to call.

"I thought…I thought you were coming here," he said. "Tonight."

She made a noncommittal noise and blinked back tears. _Do not let him hear you cry. Do_ not.

"I'm just…uh…really, really…tired," she said.

_Of me?_ he thought.

"When I'm _really_ tired I tend to get clumsy…clumsier than usual. I make a lot of noise. At night."

"Sara…" he said quietly. "About what I said, earlier. I didn't…"

"Mean it?" she said. "Maybe you did. Maybe you did, and if so, that's all right, you know?"

"It's not what I meant and it's not all right," he said.

Pause.

Pause.

"I wish…I wish could just _tell_ you," he said.

Pause.

"What?" she said.

_That I love you_, he thought.

"How I feel," he said.

Sara sighed, suddenly very, very tired. "Write it down sometime," she said.

"Yeah," he said. "Maybe I will."

And he meant it.

* * *

_I guess some people just shouldn't be together._

As soon as she said it she realized how awful it sounded but when she saw the look on his face she felt a small spark of victory. He looked like he'd just been kicked. Or dumped.

_Take that_, she thought. _Now you know how it feels_.

But then she immediately felt sad and sorry and alone and didn't know how to take it back or make it better.

_Or if I even want to_, she thought.

But she didn't mean it.

* * *

"Where's my toothbrush?" he said.

_Shit_, she thought, pushing her face into the pillows. She knew she'd forgotten something. She pulled the sheet tight around her shoulders and mumbled something.

"What?" he said, coming into the room.

"Isn't it there?" she said.

"If it was there, I wouldn't be asking where it is," he said patiently.

"Hmm," she said. She pushed herself up on her elbows, examined her fingernails. "I may have thrown it out."

He raised an eyebrow. "You may have."

"I may definitely have thrown it out."

"May I ask why?" he said, leaning against the doorframe.

Why, she wondered suddenly, does this man make me want to cry all the time? She pushed her fingers against her eyelids. "I…well. I wasn't sure if you'd be back."

He went back into the bathroom. She heard water running. The light went out. He slid into bed next to her. She opened her eyes and he was watching her.

"But how," he said, "am I supposed to kiss you if I haven't brushed my teeth?"

She let him, anyway.

* * *

He left her a note the next morning. There was some writing, crossed out. More writing, scribbled out. Then a happy face. And a heart. And a G.

* * *

"Some day," she said, on a Thursday, "I'd like to see a monster truck rally."

"I'd like to see Niagara Falls," he said.

"Really? Why?"

"I could ask the same of you," he said.

"Because they're really big…and really loud," she said.

"Same here," he said.

"I bought you something today," she said, tossing it into his lap.

"It's purple," he said.

"It's all they had," she said. "Look it has extra long bristles on the sides. For your gums."

"It's perfect," he said. And he meant it. Sort of.

She didn't know what else to say after that. She sighed. She scratched her elbow absentmindedly. He looked at her and opened his mouth to say something, but she never found out what it was because she stood up then and walked to the fridge. She opened it and turned to look at him.

"You thirsty? You want a soda?"

* * *

The letter, when it finally came, was good, _really_ good, but that's an entirely different story.

* * *

_Fin_. 


End file.
